I'm justifying it by telling myself that all the great writers did it. Ernest Hemingway. Edgar Allen Poe. William Faulkner. F. Scott Fitzgerald. James Joyce. Hunter Thompson. And those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head. While drunk.
But who the hell am I kidding. I'm not a writer. I'm a head case with a bottle of wine and a laptop. The internet shouldn't be for everyone.
The wine hasn't given me any inspiration to write the next great American novel or caused me to come to any life-changing conclusions. But it has given me the courage to admit a few conclusions that I have come to over the last few days.
Let me set the stage. I have been alone all weekend. Many of my close friends went away for the weekend on a trip that I was supposed to be on. Boyfriend is in Florida for a funeral. My entire extended family is actually in town, but hasn't extended the invitation to me. Not that I would accept. So I have been sitting in my apartment, trying to survive. Too depressed to read. Too manic to do anything productive without flipping shit. And here's what I've discovered.
First, I am far too dependent on Boyfriend. He is the only one that I can actually talk to about what I am truly feeling. But somehow, he is also a trigger. He is too fucking wonderful. He is loving me and complimenting me and supporting me when I deserve to be thrown to the curb. Every text from him makes my heart leap and my stomach sink. I am destroying my brain trying to figure out how to make him break up with me in a way that hurts no one. Sooner or later, one of us is going to explode. I'd rather it be me.
Next, I am sick of living. It's not that I really want to die. I just don't want to live anymore. She was right. I will never be anything, and all I am doing is bringing the people who choose to associate themselves with me down. I am crazy. I am a fuck up. I should have killed myself when she told me to. If there was a way I could fade into the background and disappear, I would take it.
Before anyone freaks out, I'm not going to commit suicide. I've had a lethal dose of lithium by my side all weekend. If I wanted to do it, I would be dead by now. I suppose this goes hand in hand with not wanting to live: I should be locked away for a while. I cannot be trusted by myself. Hardest confession right there.
Third, self-harm is actually becoming an addiction for me. I'm not going to go into detail about what I feel when I do it or why I do it. That's a-whole-nother story. But I will say, the list of feelings and reasons is growing. I am finding any excuse to grab that trusty razor.
Finally, there is no one I can turn to. As much as I love my friends, Boyfriend, and Dad, I cannot call them when I need them most. I know with my whole heart and soul that they would be there for me, offering whatever they possibly could to make me better. But it won't work. And then that will just be another notch on the chart of disappointments that I've been racking up over the last few decades. So when I am sitting alone with these horrible thoughts, ideas, and plans brewing in my head, I don't answer my phone. I don't open my door. I don't go to the store out of fear of running into someone who might be able to read my eyes. I hide under the covers and pray that I will magically not wake up.
There you have it. A drunk mouth speaks a sober mind. Or something like that.
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